Tuesday, October 19, 2010
"Disney has a rigid dress code. Which kinda makes you wonder how Winnie the Pooh managed to slip through without pants."
~ Stephen Colbert
Ugh. Quite the day in Psychotherapy.
I dunno if I even want to write about it. Which means I prolly should.
Basically, I just said that I didn’t want to talk about my fucking childhood anymore, why I’m fucked up, the things that happened to me, etc, that I have been to treatment and watched people cry and blub and find their inner fucking child, but in the end it didn’t affect a goddamn thing, and they still went out and used. So why bother? Quit wasting my time. I’m here to learn how to stop trying to kill myself. TELL ME HOW TO STOP TRYING TO KILL MYSELF.
The other girls jumped all over that, and of course I got defensive, and basically told them all to fuck off and leave me alone. Which I later apologized for. It was just so overwhelming, seven other anorexics and two facilitators all coming at me at once, every one of them emotionally charged and determined to change my point of view. So of course, at that time, my walls went up and I couldn’t process anything they said - I just wanted them to leave me alone. THEY started this fucking conversation! I kept thinking.
But after the Group was finished, and for the rest of the afternoon, I felt ill at ease. I tried to appease myself with the thought that oh well, at least I had pushed them all away, and now they really would leave me alone, but it only brought me temporary satisfaction. Then I would just slip back into feeling troubled.
What’s your fucking problem? I wondered, irritated.
And then it struck me. What if...what if when I was slagging off people for crying and blubbing about their problems and their rotten childhoods, the other girls thought I was talking about them? That I was making a direct reference to them, and to the emotions that had been brought up in Groups that day, and to the subsequent tears that had come with them - and not to whom I was really referring to?
Ah, FUCK! What the fucking fuck have I fucking done now?! I thought in a panic.
That wasn’t what I meant at all, I didn’t mean THEM. I was thinking about someone else entirely when I said that shit. I realized that yes, I knew whom I meant when I said it - but the other girls didn’t. Fuck!
Oh God. I was gonna throw up. I didn’t mean that! What if someone totally shut down today, refused to talk, refused to participate or get help, all because I said crying in Group Psychotherapy was fucking stupid? Not that I think my opinion is so all powerful, but I have certainly been influenced by other people’s shitty attitudes in Group. What if the tables had turned, and I WAS THE ASSHOLE?
I had to find a way to make it right.
After Dinner, we all met up in the Group Room again, for the last group of the day. When it was my turn to talk, I just started...well, blubbing.
“What I said earlier today...I think it may have come out wrong...I hope no one thought I was inferring that anyone in this group...you know, when I talked about the crying about your childhood...I was making reference to someone in particular from my own life...I didn’t mean you guys...I’m sorry, I got all defensive...”
Ha! Wouldn’t you know it, they accepted my apology, but turns out that no one had really worried about it all goddamn day but ME.
Nothing else of note really happened today. On Tuesdays at Day Program (I wanna call it DP, but I'm sure you can see why I don't [if you can't, you need to watch more porn, DP stands for Double Penetration]), we get two two-hour breaks during the day. Wikked. I used my first break to head down to Strange World Tattoos to see Mike. I spoke to him for a few minutes, he’s supposed to have a drawing ready for Thursday.
They really need a receptionist there. When I walked in, all four chairs had people laid out on them, getting tattooed. No one was behind the desk, no one greeted me when I came in. I stood awkwardly by myself for a minute, humming and ha-ing, then went over to the counter and started flipping through the books. I didn’t know what else to do with myself. A moment later, some other chick came through the front door and talked to Mike from the counter about her own tattoo. When she was done, he finally got up to see me.
But then he had to help the lady behind me, too, cuz he was behind the counter - which left his client lying there, not being tattooed.
I wish I could be their receptionist. Then I could have a straight job without having to take out any of my piercings. Ha ha! Though of course, I would be covered head-to-toe in tattoos before you could say, “You’re gainfully employed?”. So maybe that’s not the best idea.
Oh, and did ya hear? Germany just mailed out their last reparation payment for World War One! Though, as Stephen Colbert was quick to point out, there was that brief hiatus in the 1940s, when Hitler insisted that any and all mail to France or Belgium should be hand-delivered.
Posted by Henrietta Collins at 9:22 PM